Loving Myself Enough to Leave

Broken heart-- I’ve had it more than once in my life. The days and weeks and years run together, causing a stream in my mind to cycle like a whirlpool. They never stopped, until I met my love. It was unexpected. I had run through the same cycles, which I had learned over the years, beginning by force. My ex never loved me; he used me like he did. But I was never me, except when I talked to myself like I was insane. 

   The me I was forced to be did not know what to do, only what to fear. Though I never felt that fear until I felt love, real love, for the first time. It was unexpected, for I never expected to save myself from the horrible, abusive marriage I had been in over a decade. 

   While I cannot give the details of the marriage, I can give an account of how I felt and what I did. I cooked, I cleaned, I worked, I deployed. Everything a “good wife” does to fulfill her husband’s dreams, not her own. Though, the deployments were for me; I had to get away.

   While I was gone, I could be myself, yet myself was still manipulated into doing things I did not want to do, for I feared and still sometimes fear males. I would do whatever they wanted me to do, not caring about myself, or what it would do to me. Not even thinking about that. I only wanted it to end, and the only way for it to end was to do what was asked, or demanded, of me. 

   The moment it began to change was when I met my fiance. It was the Afghan New Year, and I had not started work, though I had been in Afghanistan for three days. I had slept enough to get rid of my jet lag, and was antsy. And alone. I knew a few people there, because I had worked there before, for another company. But I was still alone in my mind. 

   I sat on the sidelines, on the ground, as I often did, unless I was in the mood to sing. I have always loved to sing, but had not done as much of it since I was young. I knew mostly church-type songs, which I hated, because I was not sure what I believed. I blocked all the experiences that stressed me out, but I was still stressed, not knowing why I had the emotions I felt, only knowing I would be considered insane if I expressed myself. Being called “Bipolar Bear” had stuck in my mind. 

   One of the people I knew from before came out from the room that doubled as a prayer room and gathering place, laughing like he was having the grandest of times. He sat next to me, I scooted away. Though I knew him, I was still anxious, smiling to hide that fact. My actions betrayed me. My plate of Afghan food sat in front of me. I ate in the traditional Afghan way, using the Naan to grab kebab and palou off the plate, spilling most back onto the plate and my lap. The linguists had made some of their fried honey, as well. I could not wait to have some more; it had been over a year since I had eaten Afghan food. 

   My love, we will call him Lucky, came from the prayer room, holding the top of his head. He sat next to me, not saying anything at first. “Are you okay,” I asked. 

   “Yeah, I hit my head in there, like an idiot,” He responded, then told me his name. Turned out, we had met earlier that day, when I had been overwhelmed. 

   We sat and talked for a while, and I forgot my delicious food. That was new for me; I am often like the Cookie Monster on crack when anxious. I learned so much about this kind, deep-voiced man about my size, with the same blue eyes as myself. I could tell right away, we would be good friends. 

   As we got to know each other, we had our ups and downs. He was a smoker, I am allergic to tobacco. I still wanted to be around him, so I always took allergy medicine so I could hear him play the guitar at the smoke pit. When I got angry because I was treated unfairly by others, I would workout hard, sprinting or punching and kicking the heavy bag in the back of the warehouse. Everyone could see what happened in the gym, as it stood between three work areas. Lucky began to call me Speedball, and I returned with Lucky, because he looked like Lucky O’Leprechaun. It was fair, and we each liked our nicknames, the first of many for each of us. 

   He left, and I went on “vacation” with my husband and some "friends". They were his friends, not mine. I had a decent time, though I did not like the company. The best times were when I could be alone. I posted a silly picture of myself on social media. The response of “Classic speedball…” brought a smile to my face, and I began to wish Lucky was on the ship with me instead. I began to dream of him, as well. Dreams that did not include me as a sex slave, which is a recurring dream of mine. 

   With him, I could forget about my stress, and with him, I could remember what happened. In October that year, I began reliving my past in my dreams. Nightmares that were real, and horrifying. I could sleep, but not as much as I needed. The nights I could sleep, I was awakened by mortar fire and sirens.

   Lucky came back, and we began to date. Neither of us could remember the correct date we began to see one another, but it was a great day for us both. We felt happy. Then, we fought. We would be happy again, and fight again. It was better than blocking everything, but stressful and intense. Broken things, words said, and apologies afterwards. We both regretted each outburst, knowing they were brought on by external factors.

   I decided to get a divorce, a messy one despite not having kids. It was the best decision of my life, one I was scared to do because I felt weak, while my husband at the time had a mother who knew the ins-and-outs of divorce. I knew a long time I would be raked along the coals if I tried. But, trying assured me one thing. If I succeeded and divorced him, I could be free of those who harmed me, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. 

   Since then, Lucky and I have broken up a few times. Once we went to therapy, we began to discover how to help ourselves. And I can proudly say, I am with someone who appreciates me, instead of treating me like an object to be used. I am now myself, and learning new things while recovering my memories. Some good, some bad, all in the past. And six years later, we are still together and planning our future.